The Shadow of What Will Be
by versarilaetus
Summary: Sequel to Emotional Context, Sherlock. Sherlolly. Sherlock has been away on a case for months, leaving Molly wondering where they stand. As the holiday's approach, Sherlock arrives at Baker Street to discover that Molly has gotten herself mixed up in something dangerous.
1. Chapter 1

**So this is just a fun little holiday sequel to Emotional Context, Sherlock. If you haven't read that fiction, please start there. I'm planning on this just a few chapters, but we'll see where it goes. The title is borrowed from Dickens. Thank you for reading. : )**

Chapter 1

Molly hung the last ornament on Sherlock's Christmas tree and tried not to think about the dead body in her apartment.

She stepped back to admire her work, pressing a hand to her stomach. It gurgled in response. The eggnog and mincemeat pies Mrs. Hudson had sent up earlier weren't sitting well. Molly couldn't tell if it was due to the corpse in her living room or that Sherlock would be home soon.

She hadn't seen him in over three months. The case in the Ukraine had led them into Poland and then who knows where—he didn't tell her anything. As requested, she received a single text from him once a week, always curt and Sherlock-like. John had been back to London several times to see Rosie, tightlipped and exhausted. He wouldn't tell her anything either. For her safety, he had said. Bastard.

Molly worried the loose skin around her fingernail. At least she knew Sherlock was alive. She pulled her cardigan tighter. They had slept together, and he had immediately left the country. She was trying not to read too much into that.

She studied the small Christmas tree sitting on John's desk. It twinkled cheerfully, looking alarmingly out of place in Sherlock's flat. She had decorated it with test tubes filled with silver tinsel and tiny magnifying glass ornaments that she had special ordered on the internet months ago. She'd even found a small deerstalker ornament in a small holiday shop in Cotswold when she was out visiting her mother a last week.

It was problem too much. She adjusted the crooked star on top. Yes, definitely too much.

"Oh, Molly. It looks just lovely," Mrs. Hudson said as she bustled into the room.

Molly turned, "He'll hate it."

Mrs. Hudson waved her away. "Oh posh, he's an old softy—we both know that." She winked as she picked up the dirty tray of biscuits. "Besides, he'll be so happy to see you, it won't matter."

Molly twisted the edge of her sleeve, "I don't know about that."

Mrs. Hudson stopped piling empty teacups and Rosie's bottles on her tray. She put her hand on her hip. "Molly Hooper, don't be ridiculous—that man is crazy about you."

Molly scrunched her nose at the woman and flopped into her grandmothers chair. She picked sullenly at the tuft of cotton poking out from the arm.

She was acting like a stupid school girl. She knew it. But she was torn between wanting to see him again—wanting to pull him into a dark room and do unspeakable things until he was warm and shaking above her—and being terrified to see that the coldness had stolen back across his beautiful face. Terrified that the distance and space between them couldn't be traversed again.

Molly kicked at Sherlock's chair, satisfied when it screeched a couple inches closer to the fireplace. Rosie's cries drifted up from the stairs. The little girl was up from her afternoon nap. Mrs. Hudson tutted at Molly and headed to the door. "Try not to fret dear."

Molly scowled and examined her hangnail. It had started bleeding. She put her finger in her mouth. Mrs Hudson paused at the door. "He always comes back, you know." Molly looked up. Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Our Sherlock's a bit like an alley cat—he always wanders home—a bit disheveled from his adventures but back just the same. And when he does…well, then you'll see love."

Molly sighed. "See what?" she asked sourly, her stomach rumbling again.

Mrs Hudson winked again and then headed down the stairs without answering. Molly swallowed dryly. She needed a tonic water—perhaps with gin in it. Sherlock would be back soon. The thought made her skin hot. Yes, definitely gin.

Molly frowned down at her phone. The last text from him had arrived last night at 2 am. She had only read it a dozen times since then:

 _Case solved. Arriving at Baker Street by the end of the week. Inform Mrs. Hudson of our eminent arrival. We'll require something to eat. Chocolate biscuits would be best._

Molly shook her head. Not exactly a confession of his undying love. But it made her heart flutter to think of him, dark head bent over his phone somewhere in a back alley in the Ukraine and thinking of her. Or at least, thinking of home.

Maybe that was enough.

Molly let her head fall back, hitting the arm of the chair with a thunk. She stared up at the water stain on the ceiling and tried to talk herself out of loving Sherlock for the millionth time.

He was impossible. A mystery that seemed to get more complicated with each layer she managed to peel away. But then she thought of the soft exhalation he made just after they kissed—a little sigh of relief that only she could hear—as if he was laying down some of the weight he carried into her arms.

Molly groaned and pushed herself out of the chair. That was quite enough. She was a grown ass woman. She didn't _pine_. Not even for Sherlock. She padded down the stairs in her reindeer socks.

Sherlock's extra scarf hung next to her own on the hook by the door. It was the navy one, old and worn out. The one he had been wearing the day they met. Molly rubbed the tattered ends between her fingers. She knew he kept it around because it was secretly his favorite. Molly couldn't help but smile. For a man who claimed emotion was a critical disadvantage, Sherlock Holmes was strangely sentimental.

She sighed and pulled down her own fuzzy purple scarf. Who was she kidding? She was definitely pining.

It was only Tuesday. Sherlock had said they would be home by the end of the week but that could be any time at all. She wasn't going to just wait around in her silk nightie until he appeared.

Molly paused with one arm in her coat, and imagined Sherlock seeing her in the black nightie she had bought last week. It had been a stupid impulse buy. She'd been Christmas shopping and the tiny slip had been on display in a window at Harrods, surrounded by fake white snow and glitter. It was sophisticated and sexy with delicate straps and a daring neckline. It was everything she wasn't.

She had bought it anyway. Now it just hung in the back of her closet and reminded her that her bed was empty.

She shoved her arm in her other coat sleeve and wished she had a mind palace to escape her own wild thoughts. It was exhausting. Besides, she had more important things to think about then Sherlock.

The ice around the corpse in her living room would be melting by now. And it would not do to have the downstairs neighbors call about a leak.

She had discovered the dead man this morning, leaning against her front door with an envelope pined to his lapel. His head had made a thumping sound on her boot when she had opened the door, and it had taken all of her self control not to scream. After a three deep breathes, she'd dragged it into the flat, thankful that widow Stonesworth down the hall was never up before noon.

There were three things in the envelope. A note with two short sentences written on it, 3,000 quid, and a picture of her mother taken with a long range camera.

If it had been the first time a body had shown up at her doorstep, Molly might have been worried about that last item. But it wasn't.

So she had wrapped the corpse securely in a heavy duty trash bag filled with all the ice and went to work as usual. The dead man wasn't going anywhere. And as for who had dropped it at her flat, well, he could damn well wait. That picture was playing dirty.

Molly patted the small leather wrap of autopsy tools in her coat pocket. She had retrieved it from her work locker this morning. The bone saw she had "borrowed" was tucked inside her purse. She was sure no one would miss it.

She tugged on her Wellies and stepped out onto Baker Street. Cold rain stung her face. Molly tightened her scarf. The weather in London had been even more dreadful than usual lately. Dull clouds hung low over the city, a constant gloom that spit sleet and ice.

It had snowed a few inches, but it wasn't a pretty white snow like in the country. It was city snow—a dirty wash of slush that seemed cover everything in a blanket of gray.

A cab turned the corner. She raised a hand, but it picked up speed, spraying her boots with dirty water as it passed. Molly sighed.

The street was empty. She looked up at the boy's window as she waited for the next cab. The little Christmas tree sparkling cheerfully despite the mud on her pants and the tightness in her heart.

Molly pulled the flaps of her wool hat over her ears as a black town car slid smoothly up to the curb in front of her. It gleamed in the street light as if it hadn't just been driving through mud covered streets. The engine purred silently.

The back passenger door opened.

Molly bent her head. A beautiful dark haired woman sat in the backseat fixing her lipstick in a small golden hand mirror. The woman didn't look up. Molly shook her head. Mycroft certainly had a flare for the dramatic.

She glanced back at 221B. Sherlock was going kill her.

Molly frowned. _Sherlock._ Being shot at somewhere in Eastern Europe. Her own beating heart out there risking his life, and she knew nothing-just had to grit her teeth and wait for him to come back to her.

Well. Mr. Dark and Mysterious wasn't the only one who could live a life of danger, with his cheekbones and ridiculously handsome coat. She might be just a mousey pathologist, but everyone had their secrets. Even her.

The dark haired woman snapped her compact closed and raised a well manicured eyebrow in Molly's direction.

Molly didn't look back at the flat again. She got into the car and closed the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**So I had this great idea to write a fun little Christmas fiction. You know when's a horrible time to start a new** **fan fiction? The holidays! So please humor me while you read this belated *eyeroll* Christmas story. : )**

Chapter 2

She wasn't here.

Sherlock stood in the middle of his own sitting room and scowled at the tiny Christmas tree on John's desk.

He didn't have to look to know that the flat was empty. The room was dark, save for the steady red and blue pulse of the Christmas lights casting eerie patterns on the wall. The fireplace had burned down to cold ashes. Stillness seemed to live in the corners of the room.

Sherlock tried not to notice the way the silence seemed to bleed into his chest cavity as he shrugged off his rumpled coat.

It was late—3:27 am to be precise. His hair smelled like cigar smoke and the taste of expensive whiskey was souring on his tongue.

The free flight home on the Ukrainian mafia's private jet had been welcomed, but he hadn't caught a minutes sleep. His hosts had insisted on a last minute poker game. It would have been foolish to refuse such an offer. Besides, it had been ages since anyone was stupid enough to challenge him to a game. So he'd hidden a smirk behind a polite cough and agreed, despite the heaviness that pressed down on his shoulders.

He had been well on his way to fleecing them when John had woken up and kicked him discreetly in the shin.

Sherlock touched the thick roll of Ukrainian money in his pocket. His blogger would never be capable of understanding the dark underbelly of such interactions. He was just too irritatingly good. Besides, Sherlock was mostly certain that he would not be seeing those gentleman ever again. He had bet on it, in fact.

He ran a hand over his face. Despite the late hour, the cab had dropped John at his own flat before heading to Baker Street. Sherlock plucked a single violin string as he moved closer to the window, listening to the way the quiet swallowed the single wavering note.

They had escaped the case fairly unscathed, but John…well, there had been all that business with him almost falling off the roof. Sherlock yawned. Almost was of no consequence, but John had insisted on seeing Rosie as soon as they landed. Tedious.

Sherlock glanced at his phone as he studied the small twinkling tree. Christmas was tomorrow. He had been so caught up in the case, he had almost forgotten about the dreadful holiday. Dodging semiautomatic gunfire in dark alleyways tended to do that.

Sherlock touched one of the tree branches. The ridiculous little spruce was decorated with test tubes and tiny magnifying glasses. He raised an eyebrow.

Clearly Molly had been here.

He glanced around the flat. The whole room smelled like pine and nutmeg. Molly's hideous orange cardigan was hanging on the back of his leather chair. A forgotten mug of hot chocolate sat on the side table next to an dogeared paperback mystery. Sherlock pursed his lips. Low brow drivel.

He rubbed the back of his neck as he wandered into the kitchen. It was practically sparkling—not a bunsen burner or experiment to be seen. Even his microscope was stowed away.

A white Christmas cake sat on the table in its place. Sherlock ran a finger through the cake icing and grumbled. He would bet Mrs Hudson had gotten rid of the petri dishes he was storing in the microwave. Waste of good data.

He licked the icing off his finger. It was delicious. He briefly considered cutting a piece and washing it down with a cup of tea, but then decided sleep was more critical and retired to his bedroom.

It was as dark and empty as the rest of the flat, but his sheets were rumpled and hanging off the edge of the bed.

She had slept here.

Lust uncurled itself in the pit of his stomach. He ignored it, emptying his pockets on the side table. Not thinking about Molly in his bed or the way her lips had felt in the hollow of his hip or the things she had whispered as she moved lower.

Sherlock sat down and toed off his shoes. Her pajamas were crumpled in a ball at the foot of the bed. He fell back on top of the covers, dragging himself up to the pillow.

She wasn't here. He hadn't expected her to be. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, his eyes burning.

That was a lie. He had expected her to be curled underneath his covers, her dark hair falling across one naked shoulder, soft and warm and waiting. He had been imagining slipping in beside her every night for months. Sherlock turned on his side and yanked one corner of the comforter up to his chin.

He closed his eyes.

The pillow smelled like her—sweet, like oranges and vanilla. He cursed and sat up. Christ, what kind of damn shampoo was she using?

It had been 36 hours since he had slept. He had wrestled a man with a gun just 8 hours earlier. His ribs were bruised to prove it. Sherlock shoved his feet back into his shoes and stalked to the door.

God. Damn. Molly.

It wasn't until her reached the curb that he realized he had left his coat upstairs. London was not nearly as frigid as Eastern Europe, but he shivered all the same. Slush soaked between the seams of his leather shoes as he waited for a cab to trundle by. A thin crescent moon slipped out from behind the low clouds. Sherlock pulled his collar tight and raised a hand as headlights came into view.

He must have dozed off because when he jerked awake the cab was idling in front of Molly's building. He fumbled with the bills in his pocket, managed to pay the cabbie, and stepped out into the cold night. The car pulled away through the gray slush. Sherlock hunched his shoulders against the damp.

It was so late that it was almost morning, mist rising off the wet pavement. Sherlock blinked up at the soft glow of her window. His eyelids felt like sandpaper.

This was crazy. He should be at Baker Street sleeping. Molly would still be here in the morning. He buried his hands in his suit pockets, and started up the steps, taking them two at a time.

It was her skin. That was the problem really. It had a quality to it that he couldn't quantify. It was just flesh, like everyone else's—lipids and keratin. But when he brushed her skin with the tip of his fingers it was like touching live wire, the buzz of pleasure so sharp it stole his breath.

He thought of the blush that bloomed on her neck the last time they had been together. The sounds she made when his lips had found the tender spot on the back of her knee. How warm her—

Sherlock gripped the stair railing so hard the metal cut into his palm.

Sex was a poor substitute to the ecstasy of the mind. It was an indulgence of simple men. And he was not a simple man. He just needed to get her out of his system. Sherlock stopped in front of Molly's door.

He wanted her. To say otherwise would be a imprecise. He wanted to slip his fingers into her warmth and hear his name shatter on her tongue.

But not tonight.

Tonight, all he wanted was to sleep beside her.

Sleep had always eluded him, even when he was worn to the bone from a case. Even when he was coming down from a high and his body was tingling from exhaustion, insomnia stalked him. His mind never wanting to settle for more than 4 hours. And when he did finally succumb, his dreams were always haunted.

But with Molly, he had curled around her spine as sweat cooled on their skin and tumbled effortlessly into sleep.

Of all the things he had missed, it was the thought of her, warm and pliant in his arms that had followed him to every mildewy cot and damp hovel. The feel of his hand flat against her soft belly as he slept had been a revelation. He wanted more.

Sherlock slipped Molly's door key from his pocket.

Technically she hadn't given it to him, but he was certain she wouldn't mind. It was late, and he didn't want to wake her. He'd just slip into her bed, and lean into her warmth until morning. The thought made him lightheaded. Sherlock pushed open the door.

Molly looked up from the corpse laid out on her kitchen counter, and almost fell off the chair she was standing on. She squeaked, bracing one bloody glove on the body's torso. The scalpel she was holding clattered to the tile.

Sherlock blinked. He was jet lagged and hovering somewhere between drunk and hung over, but he was fairly certain that Dr. Hooper was doing an autopsy in her kitchen.

She held a bone saw in one hand, the victim's liver and stomach contents balanced on a cookie sheet near her elbow. The bottom half of the body was discreetly covered with a red and green table cloth decorated with cheerful snowmen. The man's brain was exposed, glistening in the twinkling Christmas lights Molly had strung around her kitchen.

Sherlock closed the door quietly behind him.

"Sher—Sherlock," Molly stammered, pushing the safety glasses to the top of her head. Color swept across her cheeks, the same pink blush that spread across her chest when they…Sherlock swallowed dryly. Even covered in blood and clearly committing a crime, she was lovely.

Molly cursed softly under her breath, her dark eyes huge as she watched him move closer. Her chestnut hair was gathered into a wild bun on the top of her head, the tendrils falling into her eyes. A laboratory apron was tied over her pink dressing gown and there was a fine mist of blood spatter across her cheek. She was a mess.

He clasped his hands behind his back to stop himself from going to her. To stop himself from dragging her off that chair and away from whatever stupid, idiotic, dangerous thing she had gotten herself into.

He cleared his throat. He should be deducing the crime scene, not his…pathologist.

Molly licked her lip. "I wasn't—I mean, you said you were going to be home later in the week and…" she waved a bloody hand. "We weren't expecting you," she finished lamely.

"Clearly," he responded wryly. Molly pulled off her gloves, muttering something indistinguishable under her breath.

"What have you gotten yourself into?" he asked, putting a hand on the back of her dining room chair.

The table was set for two, Christmas crackers arranged neatly above each plate. Molly opened her mouth and then snapped it closed. She patted the corpse on the shoulder nervously.

"I—well…" she stammered, pushing hair out of her face as she searched for words. Sherlock scanned the flat.

There were two glasses on the counter behind her. Wine. Red. A 2011 Chateau Cos d'Estournel, to be precise. Rare and expensive. One half empty glass with lipstick across the fine rim. Molly's gaze darted past his shoulder before settling back on his forehead.

Sherlock stilled. "Is someone else here?"

Molly made a small sound of denial, but her face told a different story.

There was someone else in her flat. At 4 am.

Cold logic disappeared under a tsunami of jealous possession so strong that Sherlock felt his vision blur. His grip on the dining room chair became a strangle hold. Underneath the wave of emotion, his mind calculated the slim possibility that Molly was engaging in some sort of sexual relationship while carving up a dead body on her kitchen counter. The chance was nearly nil, but facts seemed to have loosened their hold on his exhausted mind

Rage sunk it's claws into his sanity, and he found himself crossing the room in two jerky strides. Sherlock yanked Molly roughly off the chair. She felling against him, his name a breath on her tongue. Her fingers curled around the lapel of his suit. He leaned down close, their noses brushing. "What the _hell_ is this Molly," he snarled.

Her breath feathered against his lips. "I can explain," she panted, her golden eyes wide. He wanted to shake her, but she smelled like hot chocolate and embalming fluid, and suddenly he was kissing her.

She tasted like home. Molly held on, gasping as his icy fingers pressed into the dip of her spine. He swallowing her whimper like a man dying of thirst, tilting her jaw to deepen the kiss. Adrenaline roaring into his veins as her tongue found his. His fingernails bit into her skin but she just slipped a hand inside his collar, her palm settling against his pounding pulse. He groaned, ashamed of the need flooding through him. Ashamed of his body's violent response. But Molly pressed closer as if his lips were tender and not a bruising assault.

He wanted to fall into her—to drag her into the bedroom, mysterious guest and corpse be damned.

Sherlock pushed her away before he couldn't anymore, holding her at arms length. His fingers dug into her shoulder. She didn't complain. Her hair had come loose, and her lab coat was smeared with blood. He had never seen anything more beautiful. Sherlock let out a breath through clenched teeth.

"Who is here?" he asked, grateful to find that his voice was steady despite the riot in his heart.

Molly started to shake her head, but Sherlock knew the answer before the lie had formed on her tongue. It came to him like shadowy figure out of thick fog. His fingers spasmed on her arm.

He should have seen it when he came into the kitchen—should have noticed the familiar scent of the pretentious cologne in the air and the umbrella propped in the corner, still dripping snow slowly onto her linoleum floor.

But all he had seen was her.

She reduced him from the worlds most famous detective to just a man, flesh and blood and blinding need.

Sherlock released her, pushing a little so that she stumbled back against the counter. He was always pushing her away. Sherlock wondered it it would ever work-if one day he would push and look up to find that Molly had finally given up on him.

Sherlock straightened, shoving the thought away as he rearranged his features into bland distaste. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Molly's face was pale now, a direct contrast to the flush of her wet lips. She spread her hands helplessly. "I can explain Sherlock," she said, her voice a low benediction that seemed to slice deep into his soul.

But Sherlock had already turned away, pressing his shoulders back and tucking his trembling hands into his pocket just as Mycroft stepped into Molly's kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had lost weight. It seemed like the case had carved into his face until it was all hard lines and shadows.

He'd flinched when he had pulled her off the chair, as if hiding some sort of injury. And Molly had not missed the tremor in his hands.

But he was here. Sherlock was alive and in her kitchen.

Molly had thought she understood what gratitude was. But this—this was sharp and painful. Relief filled the hollows between her ribs, making it hard to breath.

She could barely look at him. And yet all she wanted to do was look at him.

Wanted to trace the way his hair curled against his collar and his wrinkled suit hung off his narrow shoulders.

Sherlock was livid with her. She had tasted the rage and whiskey in his kiss.

Molly has known he would find out eventually. Was surprised that he hadn't already deduced her secret life.

And also not surprised, aware that the going's on of Molly Hooper barely registered on Sherlock's list of things that mattered.

The truth was, she'd been working for Mycroft for years—secret jobs too sensitive for traditional channels.

And he paid her well. So well that she'd been able to buy that cottage for her mother last year and finally pay off her own loans from university.

But money was not the only reason she had said yes to Mycroft all those years ago.

She'd agreed for the excitement of it.

It was something that made her heart beat between dull staff meetings and lunch breaks in the hospital cafeteria eating soggy chips and making small talk with colleagues. Something to remind her that she was alive.

Molly knew why Mycroft had chosen her for his clandestine little jobs. She wasn't a daft.

It was about Sherlock. Just like everything in her life seemed to be. Mycroft came to her because he knew it would irritate his little brother.

And up until recently it had been fine. It had been all fine. What she did in her free time hadn't been anyone's business because Sherlock hadn't been hers. But now…

"Brother," Mycroft sniffed, stepping into the room.

Sherlock sneered. "Mycroft."

Mycroft lifted his chin, looking regal as anyone possibly could in her tiny flat surrounded by her mother's crocheted doilies.

He scanned Sherlock from the mud on his leather shoes to the grease weighing down his curls. "I see that nasty business in Warsaw has concluded just in time for the holidays. Mummy will be delighted."

Sherlock's hands curled into fists. "Tell me what you are doing here before I rip out your tongue."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Such vulgarity." He shrugged one thin shoulder. "Why don't you ask your…what do I call her? Girlfriend? Plaything?" Mycroft drew out the last word so it sounded dirty. "Lover?"

Molly grabbed Sherlock's arm before he could throw a punch. It would not do to have widow Porter call the Yard about a noisy brawl in the wee hours of Christmas Eve.

She glanced back at the dead man on her kitchen island. Yes, it would be difficult to explain indeed.

Sherlock's mouth was pressed into a thin line. His pewter eyes flashed. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into Molly? You know how dangerous…How could you be so—"

"Don't you say it Sherlock Holmes," Molly snapped, drawing herself up as much as she could while wearing a pink dressing gown and fuzzy slippers.

Sherlock blinked. She lifted her chin, struggling to keep her voice even. "I am a grown woman, and I will do what I want. I owe you nothing—especially an explanation."

She swallowed. "Our personal lives are separate from whatever is happening between us. You have made that abundantly clear."

Sherlock's face went blank, the way it usually did whenever she alluded to anything deeper between them. Molly dropped her hand from his arm.

Mycroft smirked over Sherlock's shoulder. Molly narrowed her eyes at him, grateful suddenly for the distraction.

She pointed at the most dangerous man in London. "Don't you get self-righteous Mycroft Holmes, or I won't tell you what I have discovered about our friend over there."

Mycroft scoffed, "You most certainly will. This is a matter of national—"

Molly waved at the body, interrupting. "This man was murdered."

Sherlock's gaze turned to the corpse on her kitchen island. Molly could see the wheels turning inside his mind, each bit of data a cog. She wondered if he would solve the case before she could even speak it out loud.

Mycroft's brow furrowed. "Are you quite certain? The first medical examiner insisted it was a heart attack."

Molly crossed her arms. "If you knew the cause of death, why bother dropping this gentleman on my stoop?"

Sherlock stalked over to the body, pulling his magnified glass from his jacket pocket. "He comes to you, because you're the best," he mused, almost to himself as he examined the bottom of the dead man's foot.

Molly tucked her hair nervously behind her ear, fiddling with the instruments laid out on her cookie sheet.

She had always assumed that Sherlock used her as his pathologist because she was easy and shy and did what he wanted. It never occurred to her that he thought she was the best at anything.

Molly slipped on a new set of gloves. She could feel Sherlock's eyes on her. Could feel him trying to solve this new mystery.

It was strange being under his scrutiny, as if he were rearranging all the things he knew about her into a new conclusion.

She liked it. Liked being the object of his curiosity. Molly felt parts of her stir to life—warm parts that had nothing to do with autopsies.

Mycroft waved a hand impatiently. "I don't have all night."

Molly blushed, and slid on her safety glasses. She cleared her throat. "Your last medical examiner was correct. This man died of a heart attack."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the sweet smell of rot that was just starting to wafted off the body. "How could it possibly be murder _and_ a heart attack Dr. Hooper?"

Sherlock moved closer, the light of the kitchen island catching in his dark hair. His long fingers danced on the edge of the dead man's arm.

He muttered under his breath, a steady stream of observations that he couldn't seem to keep to himself. As if John were standing nearby to absorb his thoughts.

She loved watching him work. Loved the intellect that burned behind the prism of his eyes.

He was still angry with her. She could see it in the tightness around his lips and the way his gaze landed everywhere but on her face.

But this was a case.

A part of the game that just happened to be in her small kitchen. And mystery always trumped matters of the heart.

Molly lifted the dead man's arm. "Some sort of electric current stopped his heart. I wasn't sure at first. But then I found this mark." She pointed at a pinprick hidden in the man's armpit hair.

Mycroft leaned in to get a closer look, careful to keep his suit away from the blood pooling on her formica.

She shook her head. "I've not seen anything like it before. Some sort of thin, stiff wire pierced his skin here and entered his heart. An electric current was passed through it and into the organ. It is likely that he died instantly."

Molly glanced up at Mycroft over the top of her glasses. "He was intoxicated? I haven't gotten the lab results yet, but I assume since there was no sign of struggle."

Mycroft nodded, looking flustered for the first time. "He was found dead in the bathroom at the Royal…" he hesitated. "At a Christmas party."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but Mycroft just stared down at the dead man for a moment and then pulled out his mobile. He muttered to himself as he typed.

"Trouble in the British Government, brother?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft reached for his umbrella, tucking it in the crook of his arm as he made to leave. "That is none of your concern."

A muscle ticked in Sherlock's jaw. "Anything that happens to Molly is my concern."

Molly's heart squeezed.

Jealously and possession were not love. But they were close cousins. And she would take what she could get.

Mycroft didn't bother looking up at his brother's icy tone, still pecking away at his phone. "Don't be dramatic Sherlock, sentiment is unbecoming on you."

Sherlock stiffened, but Mycroft was already on his way to the door. He glanced over his shoulder at her. "I'll send my man to clean this up, my dear. This unfortunate mess will be gone by morning."

It was their usual routine.

Mycroft's mobile ran. He flipped up the collar of his coat, addressing Sherlock. "I'll see you tomorrow. Mummy is making goose for Christmas dinner. It should be positively dreadful."

Sherlock's eyes glittered dangerously. "If I see you here again, I'll kill you."

xxx

An awkward silence filled the flat as soon as the door closed. Sherlock stood still, staring at the place his brother had been.

Molly had been hiding things from him. Mousy, predictable Molly— _his_ Molly—was not who he thought she was. The fact was so startling that his sluggish mind couldn't seem to make sense of it.

She had slipping a secret by him all these years, hidden behind shy stuttering and hideous jumpers. He was baffled. And afraid.

Fear was a useless emotion if one wasn't concerned with death—just an outdated survival instinct designed for cavemen.

But he was afraid now. Afraid that some of the darkness he hunted had followed him back to this small flat with its neat line of potted plants on the window sill and the small plastic snowman next to the kettle.

So Sherlock stood still, head bent as his tired mind tried to work out this new version of reality.

The solace he had hoped to find in Molly's bed seemed foolish now. He should leave. But Baker St seemed very far away.

Behind him, he heard Molly tuck the plastic back around the corpse. Heard her take off her gloves and wash her hands. Heard the soft scuff of her slippers.

The light clicked off. Darkness settled.

Her fingers found his, her hand small and delicate within his own. She tugged him gently down the hallway without a word.

He followed her. Like a mindless idiot, he just followed her down the hall and into the loo without a word.

She closed the door behind them.

It was a tiny room. There was a picture of a kitten in a bathtub on the wall. Next to the sink, a glass bowl held a variety of colorful little soaps. The white bathmat was thick and soft under his feet.

Molly didn't turn on the florescent light overhead. Instead, a nearby street lamp shone through the single window, washing the bathroom in a pale glow.

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, her fingers going to the sash at her waist.

"Molly," he said, his voice gruff, unsure of what he was planning on saying next.

Molly let her dressing gown slip off her bare shoulders. It pooled on the tile at her feet.

All that she was wearing was a flimsy pink camisole that didn't quite reach to the waistband of her black panties.

Sherlock pressed his palm to the sink. It was cool under his hand.

Nothing she was wearing was lacy or fancy—just department store panties and a camisole that had a small tear at the hem. Molly shifted nervously under his gaze, her toes curling in the fuzzy bathmat.

Her nipples were peaked underneath the thin camisole. He wanted to put his lips there.

Wanted to feel the cloth on his tongue as he rolled that small nub in his mouth. Wanted to watch the fabric go dark and her eyes turn molten.

Sherlock looked away, shocked by the violence of his desire. Unable to watch as she leaned into the shower and turned on the faucet.

He was still angry. And exhausted. All he should want was sleep.

But that was not what he wanted at all.

Molly touched the side of his neck and he jumped, surprised to find her so close. She watched her own hand slide inside his shirt collar.

He swallowed and felt her thumb caress the hollow of his throat. "Let's get you cleaned up shall we?" she said, her voice husky.

Sherlock could see the two of them in the mirror over her shoulder. Could see the vulnerable curve of Molly's neck as she unbutton his shirt. Could see his own haunted eyes as her fingers danced down his ribs, pausing on each one as if she were counting them. As if she were making sure he was all there.

He should stop her. Should demand to know what the hell she was thinking committing crimes in her kitchen. Should warn her that Mycroft was more dangerous than she could ever imagine.

Should warn her that _he_ was more dangerous than she could ever imagine.

That she should kick him out of her cozy bathroom and into the gray snow before the darkness that clung to his shoulders settled permanently in her life.

But Sherlock just stood still as Molly pulled his shirt tails free from his trousers.

Her knuckles brushing his stomach. He sucked in a breath. She paused, her breath feathering his collar bone.

His whole body ached to touch her. But he held still.

The room started to fill with steam. In the mirror, he watched Molly lift her head a fraction. Watched her find the place where his pulse pounded in his throat. She brushed the spot with her lips, the touch like gossamer.

And then she was undressing him again, as if it were her job instead of something else entirely.

He toed off his shoes and kicked off his trousers.

She reached for the waistband of his pants. His fingers curling around her wrist.

Molly finally looked up at him. Mist dampening the tendrils of her hair that had come loose from her hair clip. Her dark eyes were unreadable.

"What is this Molly?" he growled—unsure if he was asking about the corpse or the need that skittered across his skin like radio static.

She traced the bow of his lips with one finger, her brow furrowed as if she were thinking hard.

Finally she smiled. A quiet smile that wasn't for him. "It's the game, " she said softly.

Molly stepped away, steam caressing her in all the places he wanted to touch. "You just didn't know I was playing until now."

He blinked as she shimmed out of her panties, pulling the camisole over her head in one smooth movement. Sherlock tried to think of a logical response, but Molly was already slipping into the shower, taking her skin and mystery with her.

Sherlock stared at the shower curtain. He could see the silhouette of her body in the dim light. Could see the way she stretched and sighed underneath the shower spray.

The room filled with the smell of oranges and vanilla.

"It's warmer in here," she called and he didn't miss the hint of teasing in her voice.

He never in a million years would have deduced Molly Hooper as a seductress. She was not The Woman. She was just _a_ woman.

He had clearly miscalculated.

Sherlock stepped out of his pants and followed her into the shower. Molly's eyes were closed, her head tilted back to as she worked the shampoo out of her hair. Soap bubbles slid between her breasts and over the soft curve of her belly, tangling in the curls between legs.

The sight made him want to get on his knees. To follow those droplets of water until he found a different kind of warmth. Until her teasing smile was gone.

Molly opened her eyes, her expression flickering rapidly from desire to surprise and worry. "You're hurt!" she exclaimed, stepping closer.

He had forgotten about the fist shaped bruise on his ribs and the abrasions circling both his wrists. Molly's fingers traced the ugly black contusion and he hissed, not from the pain but from the softness of her touch.

"What happened," she asked.

He buried his nose in her hair, pressing his palm between her shoulder blades to keep her close. "I was temporarily under the care of a rather unpleasant gentleman. It's nothing."

Molly looked up at him. Her eyelashes were wet spikes, framing her dark eyes. Droplets freckled her nose and cheeks and the pink of her lips.

Sherlock kissed her. There was no other choice.

He pulled Molly against him, gasping into her mouth when their bodies collided. She slid into his arms, slick and warm. The lack of friction made him dizzy.

Molly made a sound in the back of her throat. A tiny sob that danced across his skin. He tilted his head, drinking the water and the want from her lips.

Her hands were on the back of his neck, tugging him closer. His fingers skimmed down her spine and over the curve of her hip. He cupped the inside of her knee, pressing her back against the cold tile.

He lifted her leg, bending his knees as he took her mouth. If he just…if she just…

Molly pulled away, laughing, the bright sound cutting through the haze of desire and steam. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, her cheeks flush.

"Have you ever had sex in a shower, Sherlock?" she asked breathlessly, her fingers still caught in his hair.

He shifted his hips, pleased at the little gasp it invoked. "You know I have not," he growled.

Molly grinned, her eyes dancing. "Well I have." She poked him in the chest. "And you, sir, are not ready for it."

He frowned, but Molly just spun him so that he was underneath the shower spray.

It was hot. Almost scalding. He felt his muscles loosen as the water hit the back of his neck. It felt almost as good as holding a warm, willing woman against his naked body.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back. His head swam. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and wondered if it was possible to fall asleep standing up.

When he finally managed to peel his eyes back open, Molly was rubbing soap onto a wash cloth.

His brow lifted. "I can wash myself," he observed dryly.

Molly gave him a sly smile. "This is more fun." She twirled a finger. "Turn around."

He was too tired to argue. Sherlock pressed a forearm to the cold tile as the rough cloth passed over his back, down the curve of his ass, and across the back of his legs. He watched the water between his feet turn gray where it swirled down the drain.

Molly was all business as she turned him again. She dropped the cloth and ran her soapy hands over his arms and chest. Her fingers skimmed carefully over his bruised ribs and then lower.

He shuddered as her small hands circled his erection. He was hard and leaking, but she pretended not to notice, her movements quick and efficient.

Her indifference was so arousing he had to steady himself on the wall.

She crouched, moving lower to wash the rest of him. Her dark hair stuck to her shoulders, her mouth was so close to where he wanted it that he groaned.

Molly must have heard because she stood slowly, making sure her skin touched him everywhere it mattered.

"Vixen," he ground out.

Molly laughed again, the sound cracking his eggshell heart. She reached around him to turn off the water.

He wanted to grab her. Wanted to pick her up and take her against the bathroom sink or on the plush rug.

There wasn't much he didn't know about the mechanics of sexual intercourse. He'd done his research years ago—the data essential to his work.

But it turned out reading an article was not an adequate tutorial for physical intimacy. In short, he was a novice. And dead on his feet.

So he just stepped out of the shower and dried off with the fluffy towel Molly handed him.

She scrubbed at her hair and he tried not to look too closely at the water that clung to her collar bone and the curve of her hip.

He paused, the towel wrapped around his waist as if it could hide something she hadn't seen. "I don't have any clean clothes," he said stiffly.

Molly hung her towel on the back of the door, the tips of her hair still dripping into the small of her back. "Come to bed," she responded.

He followed Molly's wet footprints down the hall and into her bedroom.

It was nearly as small as his own, the decor simple and comfortable like her.

There was a stack of books piled next to her bed, an empty tea cup and alarm clock balanced precariously on top.

She'd strung white Christmas lights along the ceiling. It made the small room glow as if lit by candle light.

"We need to discuss the new parameters of this…" he cleared his throat, "relationship."

Molly's face flickered at the word, but she just pulled back the thick covers, still unabashedly naked. Her skin made it hard to think. "Tomorrow," she said, gestured to the bed. "Get in."

He hesitated and then got in, moving over to make room. The sheets were blessedly cool and crisp. The last time he remembered sleeping, it had been on a flea infested cot in a drafty farmhouse.

Sherlock sighed as his head sunk into the pillow. He felt drunk, his head spinning from exhaustion.

Molly slipped in next to him, pulling the covers up to her shoulders.

He started to close his eyes, but then she was in his arms, her skin damp and warm.

In one smooth movement, she pressed him inside of her. She was impossibly hot and wet and he almost came without a thought.

His fingers dug into her hip as she swallow his pathetic sound of protest.

He hadn't even realized she was kissing him. His hips jerked up involuntarily but her knees pressed into his side.

Molly said his name, just a whisper against his lips as he tried to adjust to her tightness. As he tried to remember how to breath.

After a long moment, his fingers relaxed.

Molly's wet hair hung around his face. Her tongue darted along his bottom lip and he opened for her. He ran a hand up her side, his thumb brushing her nipple. Molly hummed in response.

"Hold on my love," she murmured against his lips.

His hand squeezed her thigh as she started to move above him.

This was not slow and lazy. This was hot and fast and she pressed a palm against his chest to steady herself as he watched himself disappeared inside her heat.

His hips jerked, and he considered doing math equations in his head to draw out the pleasure, but then Molly was reaching a hand between her legs.

Her fingers disappeared into her wet folds and he came so hard his vision swam.

He might have touched her. Might have reared up to find her mouth. Might have pound himself into her one more time. But it was a blur, the pleasure crashing against his exhausted body like waves in a storm.

And then Molly was back in his arm, her body trembling as she rode her own release. He ran a finger down the sweaty line of her spine, until she was boneless against him.

Through the window, he could see the first rays of sunrise lightening the sky. Molly sighed against his neck.

He pulled the covers back over them and searched for something to say. Searched for a way to say the words that were tattooed on his heart.

But his eyes kept drifting shut.

Molly nestled into his side, her head tucked under his arm. Her leg was warm and heavy over his own.

He wondered if this was it.

Wondered if love was just finding someone who fit against you in the quiet of the morning.

Molly's hand rested just above his heart, her breath softening. Sherlock was still wondering about love when sleep took him.


	4. Chapter 4

There was a brightly wrapped Christmas present at the foot of the bed. Sherlock yawned and nudged it with his foot.

Molly was gone—the sheets long cold and the curtains draw across the single window. The alarm clock balanced on the stack of books read 7:02 pm.

Sherlock scrubbed a hand across his face. He'd slept over twelve hours.

He hadn't had a good night sleep in years. Not when coming down off a high or on the last day of a brutal case. Not even the night Mary had died and he'd stared at the ceiling with the hatred in John's eyes seared into his mind.

Sherlock was tempted to close his eyes again. It was comfortable here, and the pounding in his head was still a dull echo. But there was Molly to deal with. So he sat up, dragging the covers with him.

The parcel was wrapped in silver paper and topped with a red bow. He flipped the tag over. It said his name and the words: open me.

John had stopped getting him presents years ago. The man was dreadful at picking out gifts and got alarmingly cross every time Sherlock pointed it out.

Mrs. Hudson wasn't much better, every present contained some sort of badly veiled hint about his lifestyle choices. Last Christmas it had been a dust buster.

Bemused, Sherlock pulled the present closer, untied the bow, and separated the thin tissue paper.

A new dressing gown was folded neatly inside. He ran a finger down the lapel. Cashmere. Dove gray and impossibly soft. He didn't need to check the label to know it was expensive.

Sherlock stood and slipped it on, wincing at the pulled at his ribs. He glanced in the mirror over Molly's dresser. The dressing gown suited him, bringing out the silver in his eyes and hugging his body as if it had been tailored just for him.

He didn't have a gift for her of course.

Hadn't even noticed the coming holiday. He'd been too busy dodging bullets and saving governments. It wouldn't have occurred to him even if he _had_ noticed, although he was aware that giving gifts was a common ritual when two people were…

Sherlock tightened his sash. He could hear the quiet clink of dishes coming from the other room. The smell of something cooking drifted through the flat. Christmas was only hours away, so a roast perhaps. The thought made his stomach rumble.

He understood that Molly must be waiting for him.

Sherlock looked around the room. His dirty clothes were gone and he could hear the drone of the dryer down the hall. The bed was mussed, the cover's falling off the side. It didn't take a detective to see what had happened here last night. Hell, even the Yard could figure it out.

But it wasn't sex that made him hesitate before leaving Molly's small bedroom.

It was the feeling of sleeping beside her that haunted him—of waking up in the middle of the night and finding her curled tightly against him. The feeling that there was no place else to be.

He straightened his shoulders and headed down the hallway. There was only one way out of this flat, and it was through Molly Hooper. He was a lot of things, but he wasn't a coward.

The first thing he noticed when he stepped into the living area was that the dead body was gone.

Just a hint of bleach lingered in the air—the only clue that anything untoward had happened here last night.

Mycroft's minions must have slipped in while they slept. The thought of strangers in her flat made his stomach twist. But Molly was not his responsibility. Not his to protect. At least that was what he tried to tell himself when the possession and fear pressed at the top of his throat.

Sherlock tucked his hands inside his pockets. The floor was cold and he wished for some slippers. It was snowing outside. Not just a light flurry but a real blizzard, the street nearly hidden by a sheet of white.

Molly had pulled a dining room chair next to the window and was watching the storm. She sat crosslegged, a cup of tea steaming in her lap. Her hair was pinned up in a haphazard ponytail, and she had pulled a ratty gray jumper over her pink pajamas.

She didn't look around although he was certain she had heard him. It was quiet in that way it is only quiet when snow is falling outside, as if the whole world was holding its breath.

"The kettle's still warm," Molly said softly.

Sherlock crossed the room and poured himself a cup, finding comfort in the familiar ritual. Tea—chamomile. Water—not too hot but still steaming. One sugar. A touch of milk.

He waited for the tea to steep, watching Molly watch the snow, his spoon clinking quietly in his cup as he stirred.

A roast chicken was cooling on the counter. It smelled like lemons and rosemary—a secret favorite of his. There was also two jacket potatoes wrapped in tin foil and a pot of mushy peas keeping warm on the back burner.

A pair of Christmas tins were stacked just behind the kettle. The kind of tins that usually held biscuits.

He glanced over at Molly, raising an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes and nodded, so he helped himself.

The shortbread was dipped in chocolate and smelled like orange zest. He took a second and then dragged a chair over to Molly.

There was at least six inches of snow on the ground and the heavy clouds seemed to indicate that the storm was just getting starting.

"It's been a long time since it snowed like this," Molly said taking a sip of tea.

Sherlock hummed in agreement and took a bite of biscuit. It tasted like heaven. He settled back into the chair.

"I'm in love with you," Molly said quietly.

He had heard her correctly. She voice had been quiet but firm—a statement of fact and not a question.

The words wedged behind his heart like an active grenade.

Sherlock turned to study her profile, wishing he understood the complex intricacies of human behavior. The shadows of snowflakes danced across Molly's face. Her eyes were a secret in the dim light.

Only the truth would do now. Even he knew that.

Sherlock tapped the side of his cup with one finger. Molly's small Christmas tree twinkled in the corner. She fiddled with the sleeve of her threadbare jumper.

"I thought about you," he said finally.

Molly flinched but didn't look at him.

He turned back to the snow, watching the way it smoothed the sharp corners of the world. "I thought of you when they held me down on the dirt floor and beat me. I thought of you when I was deceiving a very dangerous men who had a gun aimed at my temple. I thought of you on the long flight home and every time I closed my eyes."

He cleared his throat. "I know that isn't enough. I know you want the words. But they would be…false. And I won't lie."

Molly's knuckles were white knots around her tea cup. She worried her lip. Silence settled back into the room like the heavy blanket of snow.

He took a sip of tea, the heat scalding his tongue. Tension coiled in the center of his chest.

She could say no.

He had taken a calculated risk, weighing all the possibly outcomes of his statement.

There was a slim possibility that withholding that last piece of intimacy would not be enough for her. That she would finally see him for who he was—an observer and not a participant in this world.

An outlier. An anomaly.

Sherlock focused on his breath. Counting the steady rhythm of inhales and exhales. Focused on the flakes of snow that melted against the window. Watching as they turned to water and dripped down the glass.

He had wanted before of course. Wanted plenty of things. Drugs. A case. For Mrs. Hudson to stop bloody vacuuming while he worked on his sonata.

But this was a different sort of want. It seemed to crackle under his skin like brushfire.

He wanted to pull her into his lap. Wanted to steal the answer from her lips before it broke across him.

So he did.

Sherlock held out a hand. Molly hesitated, staring at his hand for a moment before offering her own. It was not an answer but relief settled into his bones like lead.

He pulled her across the short space, folding her against him.

He breath feathered against his neck. "How long before you get bored with me?" she asked, her voice small.

His lips brushed her temple. He watched the way the snow danced in front of the yellow streetlight just outside the window. "Will you stop doing jobs for Mycroft?"

Molly's fingers traced a pattern over the back of his hand. She took a long breath and shook her head. "No."

He smiled into her hair. "Never is the answer."

Molly lifted her head, her ordinary brown eyes serious and beautiful. She was his and also not his.

"Never what?" Molly whispered, her lip tucked underneath her teeth.

"Never leaving," he said gently. And then there was nothing left to say.

xxx

Mycroft was leaning against a lamppost when Molly emerged from the Tube entrance.

She squeaked and bobbled the stack of presents in her hands, catching them just before they spilled into the snow.

Mycroft glanced up from his mobile and raised an eyebrow. Molly scowled. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugged and fell into step beside her.

Mycroft looked annoyingly warm wrapped up in his fine wool coat and expensive leather gloves, as if they weren't trudging through a foot of snow on an empty street in the middle of London.

How he knew she would be stepping out of the Baker Street station at this exact moment was a question Molly didn't really want answered.

Snow slithered down the collar of her coat as they turned the corner. Molly shivered. Mycroft did not offer to take help with her packages.

"I have some follow up questions," he said, tucking his hands underneath his armpits.

Molly pursed her lips. "It's Christmas Day."

Mycroft scoffed and continued, "The gentleman you examined was an enemy of the common wealth. He held critical information about…" He cleared his throat. "Critical information."

He pulled his scarf up over his nose, his voice muffled. "Are you certain you did not find anything else on the body?"

She frowned. "Since when do I withhold information?"

Mycroft waved a hand. "Well, I am force to take into account this complication between you and my brother—"

Molly laughed, the cold burning her lungs. "Complication? You mean the fact that we're sleeping together?"

Mycroft paused under Speedy's red awning. "Indeed. Is your current arrangement going to be a problem Dr. Hooper?"

Snow was soaking into the cute, completely impractical boots Molly had chosen instead of her scuffed wellies. She stomped her feet, but her toes were already frozen. "No problem."

Mycroft nodded sharply. "See that it isn't."

A black town car rolled up to the curb. Molly wondered if he had some sort of secret button that called it so he could appear mysterious. Amused, she watched as the driver scurried to open the back passenger door.

Molly sifted her stack of presents. Her arms were starting to ache, but she glanced up at Sherlock's window as Mycroft slid into the car. "Aren't you coming up?"

"Unnecessary," Mycroft responded stiffly.

"Merry Christmas!" Molly called as the door closed. But the sleek car was already slipping away through the falling snow.

xxx

"I'm not sure what you expected," a familiar voice said as she stepped into the foyer.

Molly jumped and this time the packages flew out of her arms. Sherlock caught them with that easy grace that made her insides heat.

"Damn you Holmes men!" Molly swore, kicking the front door closed behind her.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the profanity, looking so much like his brother that Molly couldn't help an exasperated laugh.

"Its like you lurk around corners on purpose," she huffed, kicking the snow off her boots and unwinding her scarf.

Sherlock placed the packages down on the steps as she shrugged off her coat. "I assure you that your analysis is incorrect," he sniffed.

"Yes, well," she muttered, pulling off her beanie.

A ghost of a smile flicker across Sherlock's face. The kind of smile he got when he had figured out a detail of a case that was a mystery to mere mortals.

"What?" Molly asked.

Sherlock looked like himself again, his tailored suit clean and pressed, the cuffs pulled down to hide the abrasions on his wrist. His hair was clean and brushed away from his face to show off sharp cheekbones and shifting eyes.

The mask of the cold consulting detective was firmly back in place.

But it was different now. Before, Molly always saw his mask—the edges as obvious to her as a cheap rubber costume. Now his disguise was transparent, a sheer charade that she could see right through to the man underneath.

She could see the way he had looked in the shower—could see the vulnerable curve of his hunched shoulders and the soap turning gray as it trailed down his spine. Could still feel the way he had shuddered this morning, when she had knelt in front of him and separated that soft dressing gown.

Sherlock's eyes turning to smoke as he watched her, as if he could read the direction of her thoughts.

He stepped closer, crowding her against the coat rack. Molly felt her body melt and wondered when being with him would stop feeling like she had swallowed the sun.

Sherlock smoothed her hair down with his long fingers, brushing the cold that tingled on the tip of her nose. "You're a bit disheveled," he muttered. Molly blushed, shivering at his light touch.

His gaze drifted to her lips. His brow furrowed.

"It really is like a drug isn't it?" he said under his breath. "I can't seem to…"

Molly rose on her tiptoes and kissed him, crumbling the lapels of his expensive suit in her hands. He responded as if falling, his lips warm as he pressed her into the forest of coats and dripping scarves. The soft wool of his Belstaff brushed her cheek, smelling like gunpowder and London wind. Sherlock tasted like mint tea and she…

"Oh Jesus—sorry! Sorry."

Sherlock tore himself away, stepping back as John stammered on the steps above them.

"So sorry," John continued, looking everywhere but at the two of them.

Sherlock's expression was impassive, but Molly could see the color on his cheek. Could see the ragged rise and fall of his breath. He did not look up.

For the first time Molly noticed the happy sound of Rosie's babbling drifting down the stairs and the tinkle of Mrs. Hudson's laugh. Could smell figgy pudding cooking and hear carols playing quietly on the radio.

"We'll be right up," she said, unable to hide her happiness as she caught John's gaze. He flashed her a crooked smile and disappeared, muttering. "I am never going to get bloody used to _that_."

Molly giggled, but Sherlock cupped his hands behind his back, looking all at once awkward and like he had just stepped out of a fashion magazine.

She decided to save him. "I have one more present for you."

Sherlock looked confused. "Unnecessary."

Molly smiled. "Completely." She pointed. "It's the little one on the top."

Sherlock turned, picking up the brightly colored package with two fingers as if it were a tarantula. He examined the small present as if he could do deduce it's contents from the snowman wrapping paper. "I did not have time to reciprocate," he said stiffly.

Molly kicked off her wet boots. "Gifts are not about expecting something in return."

Sherlock frowned. "That is not what I have observed. It is clear from the—"

She huffed in exasperation. "Just open it."

Sherlock opened it.

Molly watched the flicker of emotions run over his face. Mild distain, curiosity, and then a warm delight that seemed to light his face from within.

"Is this a tooth?" he asked, nudging the tiny object with the tip of his finger.

Molly nodded, clapping her hands together. "Look inside!"

He tilted the molar, discovering the tiny strip of paper hidden underneath. There were a series of numbers on the long paper—numbers Molly could not begin to decipher.

"Is this from the corpse yesterday?" Sherlock asked, peering at the thin strip of numbers.

Molly nodded, unable to contain her glee as she bounced up and down on her stockinged feet.

"You got me a case for Christmas," he breathed.

She wrapped her arms around herself. "Yes."

"A case that should be Mycroft's?"

She bit her lip. "Yes?"

Sherlock laughed, an untethered sound that cartwheeled through her turning everything into light. "I think I might love you, Molly Hooper."

He didn't stutter over the words.

They were light and teasing. Just a slip of the tongue really.

But she saw the truth on his face. Saw it as clearly as if he had whispered those precious words in her ear. Saw the crack it opened in a heart that had been previously been closed forever.

Molly smiled back, pressing her hand to her own thundering heart. "Happy Christmas, my love."


End file.
